


Domesticity

by AngeNoir



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 00:23:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeNoir/pseuds/AngeNoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Living together necessitates compromise - something Sherlock had once abhorred.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Domesticity

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a Sherlock Secret Santa for sugarcoatedimperfection, now known as [bilbo-bangin](http://bilbo-bangin.tumblr.com). Based on their drawings found [here](http://bilbo-bangin.tumblr.com/post/38091401479/stupid-little-sketches-of-stupid-little-moments-at).

It was the little things that made Sherlock all too aware that what was  _his_  space was no longer only his space. It was in the way that he’d have to be scrunched up on the couch, because John was sitting on one end with his laptop and Sherlock couldn’t fling his legs out and over the arm or against the back of the sofa.

_“You can’t be comfortable like that – where’re the pillows that are normally here?”_

_“I’m fine, John, stop moving.”_  

_“I’m nothing more than a glorified foot warmer, then?” John laughed, stretched an arm against the back of the couch._

_He was much more than that._  

It was in the way that Sherlock would stretch out his legs under the table and find his feet hitting against John’s – who never complained, of course, never said anything at all, merely shifted his feet to one side or the other and let Sherlock place his feet between John’s own.

_“Sorry, Sherlock—”_

_“No, it’s quite alright—” Sherlock hadn’t looked up, but didn’t move his feet, and after a minute, John went back to his laptop and his slow pecking at the keys._

_John didn’t move his feet either._

It was in the way that John would make authentic curry and put two bowls down, and then wave his fork about, scolding Sherlock when Sherlock refused to put his phone down and pay attention to his meal.

_“Just transport, John, the body is nothing but—”_

_“The body, Sherlock, is going to collapse if you don’t eat a bit of something before you waste away.” John scowled, pointing the fork almost belligerently at Sherlock, and so Sherlock sighed and looked down at the bowl he was pushing away from him._

_For a moment longer, Sherlock hesitated, and then he picked up his fork._

It was in the way that John would sit facing the window, paper in front of him, lifting his mug of tea up to make a point, and Sherlock wouldn’t say anything, wouldn’t do anything, would just sit there and stare fascinated at this presence that had wormed its way into his flat and made itself at home.

_“Another news article about you.”_

_“Oh?”_

_John lifted the hand holding his tea – wrong hand, but he had just made tea for himself and Sherlock, so he was waiting for it to cool down before he drank anything – and rattled the paper with his other hand. He was talking, muttering about headlines and word choices, and all Sherlock wanted to do was to watch John curiously, arms folded across his chest, eyes bright._

It was in the way that John’s clothes, John’s laptop, John’s belongings, John’s very  _scent_ , were left all around the flat. John was as much a part of it as Sherlock’s skull, or his chemistry set – John was part of 221B Baker Street and Sherlock had no idea why or how it had happened.

He didn’t want it to end, though. He… found comfort in John’s presence, found focus in John in a way that he’d never found in anyone else. Sherlock glanced over at the hallway, where the bathroom was. They shared that one, of course – John very rarely used either his room or the upstairs shower anymore. Even there, in Sherlock’s most private of spaces, he had little care for John’s presence.

_“Sherlock, I’d thank you not to flush the toilet while I’m in the shower.”_

_Sherlock hitched one shoulder casually, staring at John in a bathrobe, rubbing a towel through his hair. “You were done in any case.”_

_John’s cheeks pinked and he dropped his gaze, turning to stare instead into the mirror. “Well. Just bloody warn me next time.”_

_And Sherlock hid his smile by leaving the room._

He only really noticed John’s persistent presence in the flat when John was  _absent_. The flat felt less lived in, more empty, in a way Sherlock really couldn’t remember feeling before John had come into his life. Sherlock found he didn’t care for the feeling. Then again, this close to the holidays, John could hardly be expected to ignore his family, even if Sherlock delighted in ignoring his own. John never stopped asking Sherlock if he wanted to come along, and every time Sherlock made it clear he was quite happy at home with peace and solitude.

And yet.

And yet here he was, lying on the couch, staring across the low table to the fireplace on the other side of the room. He was bored, yes, but it was a lethargic and sullen type of boredom, an almost physical ache that told him John wasn’t here. There was no case, no pressing need, no experiment – well, alright, there was an experiment, but at this point it needed to incubate for at least six more hours for optimal results – nothing at all that required his attention and so he could look around the flat and notice all the spots that were wrong.

John would have a fire burning in the hearth. He’d have cooked something, something with spices on this cold day. There would be tea, and soft sounds of John breathing in and out. Small clicks, as John updated his blog or checked his email. Perhaps the telly would be on in the background. All that – all that noise and scents and  _presence_  – was from John. Before John, the flat would be…

Well. Much like it was now. Cold, and empty. One light on, in deference to the early evening, but nothing else. And the flat felt much emptier, sharper, harsher.

Sherlock had become accustomed to the warmth John had brought with him. This echo back to the days when Sherlock had not had John was not appreciated.

With a sigh, Sherlock rolled onto his side and grabbed one of the dislodged pillows off of the floor to prop up his head. Back to the wall, he stared out morosely and wondered just how he’d managed to become so accustomed to John that not having the doctor around felt  _wrong_.

Sentiment. He lifted his lip in a mild curl, but he couldn’t deny the fact that yes, he did in fact miss John when he wasn’t here. Sighing, he closed his eyes and tried to cast his mind about to something other than the fact that John wasn’t due back for another hour or so.

As if to prove him wrong, the front door opened, and Sherlock heard the distinct tread of John’s boots stamping out snow from them onto the landing. There was a creak of the door – Mrs. Hudson coming out to investigate, by the lighter treads – and then low murmured conversation that Sherlock couldn’t pick apart from where he was. Nothing too shocking, then; John must have had a fairly decent time with Harry, if he was stopping to chat with Mrs. Hudson. Had things gone wrong at the party, John wouldn’t have lingered, but instead come upstairs in a mood and disappeared into his room for a while to cool down. Eyes still closed, Sherlock caught the faint scent of spices and something sweet – perhaps pie? Not spicy enough to be curry from their favorite Indian place. Maybe a lighter dish.

The stairs creaked under John’s feet, and Sherlock made no move to the door or even to open his eyes. He listened as there were muttered, good-natured complaints as John got his key into the door and then the front door opened.

“Sherlock, I brought you – Jesus, it’s bloody cold in here! Sherlock, where the devil are—”

John stopped, and Sherlock didn’t move, didn’t twitch, just stayed completely still. After a moment, John sighed and the front door closed behind him. Moving quietly – for John, but he had his heavy boots on, so it wasn’t really all that quiet – John walked into the kitchen and there was a general rustle as he set down whatever was in his hands (two bags, it appeared, and one box). Then John was moving to the fireplace, and movement let Sherlock know John was lighting a fire. More movement; turning on lights. And then John approached Sherlock and simply stood above him.

It took every fiber in Sherlock’s curious body not to open his eyes and squint up at John demandingly, trying to figure out why he was looming over so threateningly.

A whisper of movement, and then a soft, thick blanket was being draped over Sherlock’s body, tucked against Sherlock’s chest and neck, and a heavy, warm hand rested on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” John murmured, bending down to press a light kiss against Sherlock’s brow, and then John moved away.

Sherlock contemplated moving, but John must have warmed the blanket by the fire first before bringing it over because it was warm, and there was noise in the flat again, that undeniable presence that meant that Sherlock wasn’t alone, and so he let himself slip into a doze, comforted by the knowledge that John was home, safe and sound, and all was right in his world.


End file.
